


Infinity

by mickmillk



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst, Blood, Character Death, Character Death Fix, Imaginary Friends, M/M, Mickey's not really dead don't worry, Sassy old lady, Supernatural Elements, i'll update these as the story progresses, kindof, okay he is
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-18
Updated: 2014-06-29
Packaged: 2018-02-05 03:36:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1803841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mickmillk/pseuds/mickmillk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mickey Milkovich did some shitty things when he was alive. He has to make up for them in order to pass over, which includes an assignment in the form of an Ian Gallagher. Mickey is allowed 3 strikes, one of which is simple: don’t fall in love with your assignment. As he shadows Ian back on earth, will Mickey be able to fix his mistakes and pass over, or will he strike out?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first attempt at a chaptered gallavich fic so. we'll see how this goes. SPECIAL SHOUT OUT TO ELLIE AND KAY FOR BEIN MY BABES.

Gunshots explode loud and clear throughout the Chicago streets.

It happens very fast. 

One minute he’s on the block, laughing with Iggy while smoking a cigarette, and the next he’s standing over his own body, watching himself bleed out on the pavement.

It’s chaos from there.

Women are screaming, grabbing their children, shielding them with their bodies.

Some are running, some are ducking for cover.

Men are giving orders to everyone and no one to follow the van in which the shooter took off in.

And Iggy.

Mickey hasn’t seen Iggy cry since their mom died when they were practically babies.

But now, he watches his brother crawl towards his body with tears in his eyes, watches as he yells his name, watches him shake his lifeless form, begging him to hold on.

Iggy doesn’t realize that it’s too late.

Mickey’s body is unresponsive, eyes and mouth still slightly open. Blood trickles slowly from his lips as the stain on his tank-top expands.

The Mickey that stands over himself finally moves. Up until this point he’s been in shock, but now he looks down at himself, not the one on the ground, and sees a large, dry, red-brown stain on the front of his shirt. He lifts it to see two bullet holes in his stomach, but they’re clean. There’s no blood on his skin, just the shirt. He doesn’t even feel anything.

-

His first thought is that he’s dreaming.

It’s a fucked up dream, even for him. But he doesn’t feel the sense of sleep, the familiar thought of knowing you’re dreaming, that you’re gonna wake up and you’re gonna be fine.

So if it’s not a dream, what is it?

Not real, that’s for fucking sure.

Except that it is.

“Excuse me,” he yells to the crowd of people rushing to gather around him. “Can someone tell me what the fuck is going on?”

No one answers him. No one even pays him any mind.

“SOMEONE CALL THE POLICE!” a woman next to him screams.

“Jesus, lady,” he exclaims, covering his ears, glaring at her.

He bends to his knees and reaches for Iggy, who’s currently holding his lifeless body, rocking back and forth, mumbling words no one can hear.

But his hand passes right through his shoulder.

“What the fuck,” Mickey whispers, staring at his hand.

He tries again, quickly moving his hand back and forth through what should be a very solid Iggy.

But he feels nothing.

“What the fuck!” he yells again, backing away.

His eyes shift from person to person, and he realizes that no one can even see him.

He puts his hands to his head and tugs on his hair, panic setting in.

“What the fuck is happening,” he squeaks.

His panic is put on temporary hold as an ambulance careens into the street from around the corner. The sirens are blaring, and they’re followed close behind by the police.

People are shouting descriptions of the van, the license plate number and color, and the police take off in the direction they’re given, leaving Mickey to watch the process of his own cleanup.

They move quickly.

The back doors of the ambulance are thrown open, and they work to get the stretcher out, running towards the crowd that has gathered around him.

“Move!” they shout. “Get him up! Check him!”

He watches as the medics part the crowd and move in to take his body.

But Iggy won’t let them.

“No!” he sobs. “Mickey! Don’t take him – LEAVE HIM ALONE! MICKEY!”

Mickey bites his knuckle, tears springing to his eyes.

He has to look away.

“Don’t you fucking die on me, Mick” Iggy sobs. “Don’t you fucking do this to me, come on, stay with me..”

One of the medics has reached the body and manages to check for a pulse. He looks to the people who are working to grab medical equipment from the back of the truck and shakes his head.

They work at a slower pace from there.

-

It’s not until everyone leaves and he’s left alone staring at his own pool of blood on the ground does he realize that his thigh is burning.

He thinks he might be imagining it, like the rest of this fucking day so far, but it intensifies until it feels as though his leg is on fire.

“Motherfucker!” he yells, patting down his leg.

It doesn’t help, there isn’t even anything there.

He breathes a sigh of relief when it relents as he reaches his hand into his pocket.

Tentatively, he closes his hand around a small, flimsy rectangle.

Pulling it out, he sees that it’s a business card.

Well, sort of.

All that’s printed there is an address he doesn’t recognize.

He doesn’t even recognize the card. In fact, he’s completely unsure as to how it even got there.

An annoying inkling in the back of his mind tells him that it’s related to the already bizarre enough events that have happened today.

Truth is, though, is that he doesn’t have any other answers.

He can walk around all day until he finds someone who can see him or give him information, but he figures that unlikely to happen.

All that’s left to do, really, is to find the location.

As soon as he makes the decision, his feet start leading him in the right direction without them being given the command.

He finds that he’s not exactly surprised.

-

His feet bring him to the front of an unimpressive, single-story stone house.

The lawn is overgrown, vines crawling from the ground up and over the dark stones, all the way to the roof and beyond.

There are two large windows facing him, but they’re boarded over, spray painted with fading graffiti. He can’t even tell what it’s supposed to say anymore.

This is the kind of house Mickey would break into to drink and smoke in with his friends, or even sleep in if shit got rough enough at home.

Maybe not this house exactly, it’s kind of creepy. But he’s been known to trash similar kinds.

When he was alive, anyway.

Now that he’s here, he’s not sure if he wants to find out what’s inside. He feels exhausted, like he wants to give up and sleep forever like you’re supposed to when you’re dead.

But something pushes him forward, once again, without his permission.

Taking a deep breath, he slowly starts his way towards the front door and raises his hand to knock.

Before his fist reaches the wood, the door swings open slowly with a creek.

“The fuck,” he mutters under his breath.

“Language,” warns a voice from inside.

He pauses at the doorstep.

The voice is heavily accented, and unmistakably a woman’s. An old woman, who’s just reprimanded him for cursing.

Suddenly he feels like he’s 8 years old.

His reflexes push him to say something obnoxious in return, but something stops him. Fear of the unknown, probably, though he’d never admit it.

“Uhm, sorry” he tries, but still doesn’t move from where he’s standing.

“Come in boy I haven’t got all day,” she snaps.

His feet push him in and the door closes behind him without him touching it.

He’s beginning to resent all of this involuntary movement and wonders briefly if this is how things are going to work from now on. Something tells him that grandma here probably has all the answers.

“I can control my own damn feet,” he growls unimpressively.

When she snorts humorlessly in return, he looks up for the first time to find the source of the noise.

He doesn’t know what he was expecting to greet him, but whatever idea he might have had, it certainly isn’t this.

There is a single room in the house.

At the center is a wooden desk, piled high with folders and papers, some of which are cascading to the floor. The papers are so high that he can’t see the person behind them, the only reason he knows she’s there is because he can see her feet hanging from the chair under the desk. They don’t reach the floor.

The only things in the room aside from the desk are filing cabinets that line the walls. These are also overflowing with papers, and there is even more on top of them, spilling from boxes.

“Take a number,” the woman says, snapping Mickey out of his inspection.

A number?

“You serious?” he asks, looking around. “I’m the only one here.”

Her hands come up to part two stacks of paper that are blocking her view, and Mickey finally gets a good look at the woman who’s been speaking.  

She’s a tiny old thing, with shockingly red hair piled high on her head in a bun. Large teal earrings dominate her lobes, and the frames of her eye glasses are almost as big as Mickey’s fists.

“Humph,” she grumbles, taking in Mickey’s appearance. “Another Milkovich. Very well, have a seat.”

There is no seat available to take, so Mickey ignores her.

“Do I know you?” he asks, even though he knows he doesn’t. He would remember meeting someone like her; she’s very unsettling, especially since she already seems to know who he is.

“Unlikely,” she responds, hopping out of her seat to waddle over to a filing cabinet. “But I know you. Michael Milkovich, correct? 24 years old, homosexual, Capricorn, not married, childless, dead, etcetera.”

Understandably, Mickey is taken aback. He’s never told a single person about his sexuality, and how this strange woman knows anything about him, let alone his preference for the opposite sex, is a complete mystery to him.

“Who are you?” he questions, eyes narrowing. “Why am I here?”

“If you give me a moment,” she huffs.

A stool appears quite literally out of nowhere. As she stands on it, drawers to the filing cabinet spring open, and she ruffles around inside them until she finds what she’s looking for.

Once that’s done, the drawers slam themselves shut and she walks back to the desk, studiously ignoring Mickey as she reads under her breath.

He waits impatiently while she flips through the pages, and by the time she’s put down the 7th one, he still hasn’t received any information.

He’s had about enough.

“Are you gonna tell me what I’m doin or am I just gonna stand here like a fuckin coat rack?”

“Language,” she snaps, looking up to glare at him behind her spectacles. Ignoring his question, she continues to read.

He clenches his fists, wishing he had a cigarette to smoke. Can he even smoke cigarettes anymore? He doesn’t know, and he doesn’t want to ask.

He’s about to say fuck it and leave, but she chooses that moment to clear her throat, almost like a warning, so he plants his feet.

Finally, after what seems like an hour, she closes the file and folds her hands together in front of herself.

Maybe now he can get some answers.

-

“You’ve got quite the rap sheet here,” she begins.

A million things race through his mind, but the one thing he says is, “that’s mine?”

She holds up the file and taps it with her pen.

Printed large and black on the front are the words _Michael Milkovich._

Under his name are both his birth date, and the date of today.

The day he died.

Mickey feels like he’s finally reached a breaking point.

“I have a file?” he questions. “Like a _life_ file?”

She nods solemnly.

This can’t be good.

“That’s a real thing? That’s a file about my life?” he squeaks, feeling faint.

“Every moment,” she responds calmly.

This really, really cannot be good.

He can almost deal with being some fucked up version of a ghost, and maybe his body moving against its own accord is something he can get used to, and okay doors and filing cabinets opening and closing without being touched might be kinda weird but _a file that contains his whole life_?

It’s a bit too much to wrap his head around. The panic he feels from knowing the kinds of things that reside in that file starts to take over his body, and he starts to feel crazy.

“Can you please tell me,” he begins, his voice shaking, “what the everloving FUCK, IS GOING ON HERE? WHY AM I HERE?!” He doesn’t feel in control of his emotions anymore. His eyes are wide, crazed. His hands shake, and it’s taking physical effort to keep from dropping to his knees.

“Watch your language Michael I will not say it again.”

“TELL ME!” he screams desperately. “Please you can’t just – I need to know what’s going on…what’s happening to me?” His voice has almost dropped to a whisper, and this time he does drop to his knees, unable to hold himself up any longer.

She rolls her eyes at his episode, but takes pity on him.

Hopping to her feet once more, she makes her way around the desk to stand in front of him.

She takes two fingers and holds them under his chin, tilting his head up to look at him.

“You’ve got a good amount to make up for here, son,” she says softly.

“Make up for?” he questions brokenly. “To do what?”

She pauses for a moment, eyes flicking back and forth over Mickey’s, assessing him.

“To pass over,” she finally says.

Mickey’s breath hitches in his throat and he swallows. His mind starts to race again with the small amount of information he’s been given, and he begins to regain a bit of the strength he’s lost.

Despite what lies in that file, apparently he isn’t doomed to rot, which is what he thinks he deserves if you were to ask his opinion.

He also takes comfort in the fact that whatever is going on here is not some fucked up glitch. That he gets to die properly, instead of wandering the earth forever invisible and alone.

Mickey has never given any thought to what would happen if he were to die.

Now that his life has been taken from him, he realizes just how much he wants to _live_ , and live the right way, if it means he doesn’t have to go through this forever.

He decides then that he’ll do it, whatever it is that’s being offered to him.

He’s got to make this right.

“What do I have to do,” he asks determinedly.

-

“You’re to be given an assignment,” she says simply.

“Okay,” he nods seriously. “What is it?”

“Not what, but _who_.” She turns on her heel and walks back to her desk, opening his file to retrieve a single sheet of paper. He gets to his feet while she’s busy and dusts off his knees.

“Ian Clayton Gallagher,” she reads off, and looks up. “You’re being assigned an Ian Clayton Gallagher.”

“What does that mean?” he asks, eyebrows furrowed. “Like a mentor? You really think I’m the best person to be givin that job to?”

“Quiet,” she snaps, glaring at him again. She really is foreboding.

“Here’s how this works: in cases like yours, where the deceased has done one too many questionable things throughout his or her lifetime, they are sometimes given a second chance. Though heaven knows why,” she mutters.

Mickey resists the urge to roll his eyes.

“You must find a way to redeem yourself through your assignment. Only then can you pass to the other side.”

He’s expecting more, but she has stopped talking.

“Wait that’s it? That’s all you’re giving me?”

“My dear boy I couldn’t give you more information even if I wanted to. Which I don’t. Now do you have any other questions? I’m expecting another appointment.”

“Any other questions are you serious? You haven’t given me shit!”

“I’ve given you plenty! Guide him, allow him to guide you, do what you must to make sure he doesn’t turn out like you. Now if you’ll excuse me I’m quite tired of your language and your attitude and I suggest you be on your way.”

Her hand is on his back and she’s forcing him towards the front door, though part of him wonders why she doesn’t just force his feet to move on their own.

“I almost forgot,” she says pushing him out the door. “You get three strikes. Mess up 3 times, you’re done,” she emphasizes by doing a cut throat motion. “And one more thing,” she mentions as he stares at her, bewildered. “No falling in love with your assignment.”

With that, the door slams in his face.

Mickey pounds his fist against it.

“How am I supposed to find him!?” he questions frantically.

Behind the door, the woman rolls her eyes.

“Must I do everything,” she grumbles.

She snaps her fingers once, and suddenly Mickey is no longer there.

“Milkoviches,” she mumbles under her breath, and goes back to work.  

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alright i'm a little drunk and this probably needs a lot more editing but whatttayagonna do. thank you ellie for all you do when it comes to beta-ing and being my life partner xoxo

“Ow, FUCK!”

Mickey lands hard on his ass, coming down on dusty boxes full of – well he doesn’t know because he can’t see anything. It’s dark, wherever he is, and from what he can tell it’s a small space. His back is almost to the wall, and as his eyes adjust to the darkness, he can see a dull light creeping through the crack of the door that’s directly in front of him. Wincing, he gets to his feet, brushing dust off his pants while he ponders the size of the bruise that’s forming on his tailbone.

He adds skull to the list as well when he stands and hits his head on the metal bar that’s stationed above him.

“Mother _fucker_!” he cries out, favoring his head.

This is officially the shittiest day he’s ever had.

Pressing his fingers to what should be a growing goose egg, he ducks and turns to see clothes on either side of him, hanging from hangers on the offending bar that’s just given him a concussion.

Except – oh right. He’s dead.

No concussion then. No bruises either probably, now that he thinks about it.

Not that that’s exactly important right now. Not when he’s just realized where he is.

A closet?

Really?

“What a bitch,” he mumbles under his breath.

Part of him hopes that she can somehow hear him. It’s likely that she could have sent him anywhere!

_A closet?_

The irony is not lost on him that he’s about to come _out of it_ , something he never gathered the courage to do when he was alive.

He spends the next few seconds wondering if he could get away with delivering a flaming bag of dog shit to her door when he hears a noise, as if someone’s kicked over a jar and it’s rolling around on hardwood floors. It strikes him then that he’s literally just appeared in a stranger’s home and it hasn’t exactly been a quiet entrance, so it’s likely that whoever’s just made the noise is on the other side of the door waiting to bust him upside the head with a crowbar. The thought doesn’t exactly comfort him, he’s had enough head injuries for one day, but he can’t stay inside forever, so.

As quietly as he can, he reaches a hand out in the darkness and feels for the doorknob. Once his hand finds purchase, he twists it slowly and opens the door, wincing as it creeks loudly in the silence.

There’s no one on the other side waiting with a crowbar.

There is, however, the silhouette of a person standing in front of him with a baseball bat poised in the air, ready to strike. 

With a strange battle cry, the person lifts it over his head and brings it down on Mickey’s shoulder before he can say or do anything to defend himself.

“Fuck – shit cut it out! Fuck! Come on man, SHIT - QUIT IT!”

All Mickey can do is hold his hands out to block his face as the person continues to wail on him, bringing the bat down with surprising force.

“FUCK,” Mickey shouts. “IM HERE FOR IA – STOP FUCKING HITTING ME – IM TRYING TO TELL YOU-“

“WHY – WONT – YOU – STAY – DOWN!?” the boy’s words are punctuated by his swings, and Mickey wonders the same thing, _hopes_ for it even.

It hurts like a bitch, but he’s not unconscious yet, and he certainly should be. He supposes it’s one of the perks of being dead, yet undead. Though he’s not exactly sure it would be considered a perk, what with his current situation.

He’s starting to rethink this whole redemption offer when he’s saved by the bedroom door swinging open. The boy finally relents as they both turn to look towards the intruder.

“What the fuck are you doing,” she hisses. “It’s 2 o’clock in the fucking morning, are you insane!?”

The boy looks murderous as he glares at Mickey, who’s really only paying attention to how much time has apparently passed since he died. His little meeting with the devil woman must have taken longer than he thought. He starts to wonder how his brothers might be, and his sister. Shit _Mandy -_

“This guy was in my closet!” the boy says defensively, breaking Mickey out of his trance by hitting him again. Mickey’s probably gonna kill him.

The girl, however, ignores Mickey altogether, but looks at his attacker like he’s got 3 heads.

“What did I tell you about doing acid, Ian?” she asks after a pause. “Seriously?”

She comes in and closes the door quietly behind her, and the boy – Ian – looks from her to Mickey and back again, incredulous.

“I’m not on anything!” he yells, outraged. “I was sleeping! I don’t even know how he could have gotten in here!”

“Lower your voice you lunatic, the kids are sleeping!” she hushes, coming over to take the bat gently from Ian’s hands.

“Fiona this guy just came out of nowhere I swear I –“

“Shhhhhh,” she coaxes him, bringing him to her chest. She presses his temple to her collarbone and pets his hair, smoothing it down. “It’s okay, it’ll wear off soon.”

Pushing himself off of her, he ruffles his hair, fixing her with a look that makes it clear that he’s questioning her sanity.

“I’m not on anything,” he repeats, confused. “Are _you?”_

She crosses her arms and glares at him in response, setting her jaw.

“Are you fucking with me?” he asks.

Fiona purses her lips.

“I’m gonna go get you some water,” she mumbles. “Get back in bed.”

They both watch her as she leaves the room, and when the door closes behind her, Ian turns to Mickey again, his eyes narrowing.

“What the fuck is going on,” he hisses. “Why are you two fucking with me?”

Mickey opens his mouth to explain, but Ian cuts him off by grabbing the bat and pointing it in his face.

“You know what? I don’t even care. This is weird. You’re weird. Get out of my room.”

Mickey’s eyebrows shoot to his hairline. “ _I’m_ weird? _You’re_ weird, you fuckin psychopath! Trying to kill me? I was in your _closet_ , not threatening you with a fuckin butcher knife!”

“Yeah _I’m_ the psychopath. Wearin a fuckin a bloody shirt, hiding in someone’s closet.”

Mickey’s stumped for a moment. The kid’s got a point.

“Ahhhhh I don’t care. I DON’T CARE” Ian bellows, putting his hands to his ears like a child blocking out noise. “OUT!”

He’s raises the bat again, and Mickey damn near rolls his eyes, his patience wearing thin. He backs away towards the bedroom door with his hands raised in surrender, going over the possible repercussions in his mind if he decides to abandon his assignment.

The outcome doesn’t seem promising.

Thankfully, he’s saved from being re-pummeled by Fiona, once again.

“IAN,” she hisses. “Will you cut the shit? You’re freaking me out.”

She’s heading towards them to put Ian’s water glass on his desk, and Mickey’s right in her way. He doesn’t even have time to contemplate what could possibly happen if you bumped into someone you couldn’t see, but she soothes his panic.

By walking right through him.

It’s as if he isn’t even there.

Truthfully he shouldn’t be surprised, what with how his hand had passed right through Iggy earlier in the day. It doesn’t exactly seem like the kind of thing someone gets used to, though.

Ian’s reaction would be comical if Mickey wasn’t so shocked himself – his mouth drops open slightly, his eyes are bulging out of his head, and the bat drops to the floor with a loud bang that echoes through the room.

And then he faints.

His body hits the floor so hard that Mickey can feel it through the floorboards, and he slaps his palm to his forehead muttering a _Jesus Christ_ as Fiona spins around and slaps a hand over her mouth.

“Ian!” she screeches, getting to her knees to shake his shoulders. “Oh my god! Are you okay!?” His eyes flutter open, and she grabs a dirty shirt from the floor to wipe away the sweat that’s gathering on his paling forehead. Placing the back of her hand to his face, she checks his temperature, and then lifts his eyelids to check his pupils. “I’m taking you to the hospital” she mutters. “You’re having a bad reaction to that shit. I’m gonna fucking _kill_ your brother, stay here.”

“LIP!” she screams on her way out the door.

Mickey doesn’t know what that means, but he takes advantage of her absence to see if he can finally make some leeway with his assignment.

He walks over to Ian and stands over him, squatting to get closer to his face. Ian’s eyes are closed again, but when he senses someone near, he opens them to lock eyes with Mickey.

And then he screams.

It catches Mickey so off guard that he stumbled backwards, landing on his ass. He crawls back to Ian quickly and slaps a hand across his mouth to shut him up.

“Be quiet you idiot,” he whispers fiercely. “I’m not gonna fucking hurt you.”

Ian’s breaths are coming at a rapid pace, and his eyes are wide with panic, but he does what Mickey asks of him.

“Here’s what I want you to do,” Mickey breathes. “Are you listening?”

Ian nods quickly.

“That your sister that was just in here?”

Another nod.

“When she comes back, you’re gonna tell her you’re alright, okay? No goin to the fuckin emergency room, you stay put, you got that?”

He waits for Ian to nod before continuing.

“You get rid of her, then we talk. I’ll explain everything, any annoying fucking questions you might have. Deal?”

One more nod.

“Good.” He removes his hand from Ian’s mouth and slaps him lightly on the cheek, twice in quick succession.

“Get up,” he orders. “And don’t scream, for the love of fucking god.”

Getting to his feet, he offers Ian his hand to help him up.

Ian ignores it and scrambles backwards until his back hits the desk, and then uses it to bring himself to his feet, never taking his eyes off Mickey.

Mickey ignores him and decides to make himself a home.

He heads towards the desk so he can sit in the chair situated in front of it, and Ian backs away again, succeeding in knocking over everything in his path before the back of his legs find his bed and he sits down, scooting back until he reaches the headboard.

Mickey doesn’t look at him. He allows him some time to calm down as he takes in his surroundings, waiting for Fiona to return.

There’s an ashtray next to him with a few cigarette butts and half a joint, which is serving as a paper weight to hold down an army poster, big enough to cover the entire desk.

Clothes are scattered here and there, there’s a backpack near his feet full of textbooks and folders, and he can make out at least 2 different types of knives on the dresser, hunting and pocket.

He’s surprised at how similar this room seems in comparison to his own back home and feels, for the first time, a sense of sadness.

But he squashes it down.

There’s no time for pity parties, or wondering how Iggy is or if Mandy knows yet. He’s got to accomplish _something_ before he allows himself to think of anything like that, even if it’s as small as something like getting through to Ian.

He looks to the boy in question who seems to be giving himself some sort of pep talk, mumbling words Mickey can’t hear under his breath, studiously ignoring the ghost in his chair.

Mickey can’t blame him.

Fiona finally comes back and when she does, Ian looks to Mickey as a sort of silent confirmation. He takes a deep breath and plasters on a smile, but it just looks like he’s in pain. Mickey furrows his eyebrows and shakes his head at him as if to say, _please don’t make that ridiculous face or she’s_ really _going to think something’s wrong with you._

Ian fixes his features back into something semi-normal as Fiona sits at the edge of his bed, her eyes full of concern.

“Are you okay?” she asks softly, running a hand over his hair. “Lip says he never gave you any drugs, is that true?”

Ian looks down at his hands while he plays with his fingers, and a light bulb goes off in Mickey’s head confirming that Lip is a who, and not a what. Adding it to his mental list of Gallaghers, he starts to wonder how many there are in total, wondering why Ian has been singled out as his assignment.

“Told you I wasn’t on anything,” Ian mumbles. “M’just tired. Probably thought I was dreaming.”

Fiona doesn’t look like she buys it.

“M’fine, really” Ian pushes. “I just want to go back to bed.”

The kid should really try out acting, Mickey doesn’t think he’d be half bad at it if this performance is anything to go by.

“Okay,” Fiona finally acquiesces. “Try and get some sleep. I’ll be right there,” she says, pointing to a room off the hall. “Come and get me if you need anything, okay?”

Ian nods and fakes a yawn, and Mickey thinks he’s pushin it. He takes back the silent compliment about his acting skills.

“Love you, kiddo” Fiona whispers, kissing the top of his head.

Ian forces a smile and watches as she leaves, waiting until the door closes before he opens his mouth.

“You gotta get the fuck out of here.”

Mickey clenches his fists. Not this shit again.

“Look, I was –“

“No _you_ look. I have a trig test in the morning and you’re invisible and –“

“Oh come o- invisible? You can see me, asshole!”

“My sister just walked right through you!”

“YOU BEAT ME WITH A BAT! I AM VERY VISIBLE!”

“Shh!” Ian hisses. “You want her to come back in here?”

“She can’t fuckin hear me! How do you not get that by now!?” 

“Fuck, man! Please don’t remind me.”

Mickey sighs deeply, feeling defeated.

“I don’t like this anymore than you do,” he mumbles tiredly.

“Oh I sincerely doubt that,” Ian snaps back.

He puts his face in his hands and groans, dragging his fingers down his face.

“What do you want and why are you here? Who even _are_ you?”

That - That is a lot of questions.

Questions that Mickey hasn’t even thought about going over yet, questions he’s not sure how to answer himself.

“What do I have to do to make you go away,” Ian whispers. He says it so quietly that Mickey’s not even sure if he was meant to hear it.

Of all the questions Ian wants answered tonight, this is the one that really gets to him.

He stares at Ian, who won’t look at him, and for the first time starts to feel a little bad for him.

Because Ian sounds exhausted. He sounds scared. Desperate. Everything that Mickey feels.

Mickey knows he didn’t sign up for this, but neither did Ian, and he can’t imagine a world in which this situation would be fair to anyone.

As the fight drains out of Ian, it bleeds away from Mickey as well, and for the first time since he died, he doesn’t feel like fighting anymore.

Everything feels impossible. _Ian_ is impossible.

Mickey doesn’t have it in him.

“Fine,” he breathes, and Ian finally looks up. “Fine, I’ll leave you alone.”

-

As soon as he says it, the air around him changes, and a second later he finds himself standing in the middle of a single room, with a desk in the middle, filing cabinets lining the walls.

“Goddammit,” he mutters under his breath.

“An hour,” she says from behind her stacks of paper. “You’ve been gone for exactly one hour. That’s got to be a record, even for a Milkovich.”

“I don’t know what you want me to do!                The kid was scared shitless, he fainted!”

“You abandoned your assignment.”

“He hit me with a bat!”

“You were in his closet.”

“YOU PUT ME THERE!”

Mickey’s chest is heaving and he glares at the stack of papers, willing them to burst into flames with his eyes.

They don’t, of course.

They do, however, disappear completely a moment later, leaving him to glare at her instead.

She’s glaring back behind her spectacles.

“Strike one,” she says, and Mickey’s mouth drops open. “Go fix it.”

“You’re giving me a strike!? For what!?”

“Go fix it,” she repeats. “Do not abandon him again, or you’re done.”

Mickey resists the urge to stomp his feet on the ground like a child.

“You gonna send me back to the fuckin closet again?” he growls.

In response, she smirks, and snaps her fingers.

-

For the second time that evening, Mickey falls down hard on a pile of dusty boxes in a closet that’s becoming all too familiar to him.

“Fuck ME,” he groans, getting to his feet. He’s tempted to just stay in there.

A moment later, Ian swings open the door, staring at him with his mouth open.

“You disappeared,” he accuses. “How did you get back here?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Mickey mumbles, pushing past him on his way out.

He starts to pace around the room, and Ian follows him, waving his hand in front of his face.

“The fuck are you doin,” Mickey slaps his hand away, stopping in his tracks.

“You’re real,” Ian says, eyes wide. “I wasn’t imagining it.”

“No you weren’t fuckin imagining it.”

Mickey sighs, running a hand over his face, and resumes his pacing.

Ian follows.

“You were standing there. I was talking to you and you were standing there and all of the sudden you just weren’t. You disappeared. Right in front of my eyes.”

He puts his hands to Mickey’s shoulders and stops him, and Mickey almost growls.

“What are you?” he asks, eyes flicking back and forth over Mickey’s. “What’s going on?”

“I tried to tell you you moron, you freaked out.”

“Can you blame me!? Fuck, you show up out of nowhere, there’s blood all over your shirt, my sister not only can’t see or hear you but _walked right through you_.” Ian’s eyes are begging him to understand. “Is it magic? Are you magic?”

“Do I look like a fuckin magician to you?”

Ian shakes his head.

“No,” he whispers. “No, but I don’t want to say what I’m really thinking out loud because I don’t think I want it to be real.”

Mickey throws up his hands.

“Tough shit!” he yells. “I don’t want it to be real either, yet here I am, dead as a fuckin doornail, doomed to walk the earth following around your stubborn ass until one of us figures out our shit.”

Ian pales.

“You’re dead,” he squeaks. “You’re really dead? You’re a ghost?”

Mickey grabs a handful of his hair, holding his hand there.

“I don’t know,” he admits. “I don’t really know what I am.”

He swallows and looks at Ian, who appears to be speechless for the time being.

It’s the only time since he’s met him that he actually wants him to say something.

“You’re my assignment,” he sighs heavily. “That’s all I know. I’m here because of you.”

“Me?” Ian’s voice seems to be lost, and he clears his throat. “Me?” he repeats. “What did I do?”

“Jesus – Fuck I don’t know, man! I don’t know can you just – let me get my thoughts together?”

“I’m your assignment? Like you were sent here to do something involving me? Shit, are you gonna kill me?”

“If you don’t stop talking, yes.”

Ian puts his hands up in mock surrender and goes to sit on his bed, watching Mickey, allowing him to gather his thoughts.

The thing is, it’s not like Mickey has much information to give. He doesn’t know much. What he’s having trouble with is saying what he _does_ know loud without sounding like a complete fucking lunatic. Ian knows he’s dead. That’s covered. And he seems to believe it, and Mickey’s grateful that he doesn’t have to work hard to prove it because he wouldn’t know where to start.

He decides to lay out the basic facts, leaving out the strikes part, or the fact that he’s already gotten one, _or_ the fact that he’s not allowed to fall in love with him, which he knows won’t be a problem anyway.

He feels a little better once he’s established some guidelines for himself.

“Alright,” he sighs.

He sits down in Ian’s desk chair and faces him, noticing that he doesn’t look scared anymore. If anything, he just looks eager for information.

Mickey figures he deserves that much.

“I died today,” he begins. “I got sent to this crazy broad who told me – shit -“

How the hell is he going to explain everything he experienced earlier today?

Ian’s looking at him expectantly, though, and it helps him to continue.

“Look. I was a dick when I was alive. A real shit head. I did things – shit I did some things I’m not proud of, alright? And the big dogs up there,” he says raising his eyes to the ceiling, “they ain’t too happy with me. But they’re givin me another chance.” He sends a silent thank you in his head, hoping that someone might receive it.

“Okay?” Ian questions. “So why are you here?”

Mickey sighs again.

“Long story short, in order for me to die peacefully, I gotta do some shit to make up for bein such a dick. Apparently that means followin you around.”

“I don’t understand,” Ian says. “What do I have to do with anything?”

“I don’t know yet,” Mickey admits. “I was just told that you were my assignment, and that I’ve gotta help you figure some shit out, or you gotta help me, I don’t know. Either way, you’re stuck with me until I figure it out.”

“What if I don’t want to be stuck with you,” Ian argues. “Don’t I get a say in this?”

“No such luck, man. S’not up to either of us.”

“Figures,” Ian snorts.

Mickey nods and stares at his fingers for lack of anything else to say.

“So. What do we do,” Ian asks.

“I don’t know,” Mickey replies. He’s tired of not having the answers. “Guess we have to figure it out together.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i changed my tumblr url it's now makesmefreee so come talk and yell at me about stuff xo


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